Waltz
by Paperclip-Assassin
Summary: And once again she finds her heart racing, her head pounding and her world spinning as he leads their ever so familiar dance. - A collection of Sweenett one-shots that deal with dancing. New: ch.5 "Ballet- Part II"
1. Ballet

**You have no idea how good it feels to have time for writing again after final exams, christmas celebrations and whatnot.  
**

**I think "Waltz" will be a collection of one-shots that might or might not be connected. I'll just type up what comes to my mind when I think of Sweenett and dancing and voilá a new chapters will be born. I actually have a couple of ideas already, I just need to turn them into presentable one-shots. **

**What I can tell you now is that this will be my place for Sweenett fluff, because I just love it and I've freaking missed it in my life. There, I've admitted it. Can we now go on? Perfect.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Sweeney Todd_ or its characters. I merely play with them and then put them back unharmed.

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**_Ballet_**

Ever since she had been a little girl Eleanor Lovett had been fascinated by people dancing. It took her to a world far from the dull streets she'd always called her home and into a wonderland of music, pirouettes and emotions. One time and one time only her mother had taken her to a small ballet and Eleanor had stood in awe in the crowd and stared at the graceful dancers on stage with her mouth slightly agape. Although she knew it was all rehearsed into the tiniest detail, it seemed to her that their movement was spontaneous and natural. For weeks after the show Eleanor had attempted to do everything as swiftly as the dancers had, tears of frustration filling her eyes when it just wouldn't work as she wished for it to. It wasn't that she lacked discipline or practice, being the stubborn little lass she was she would continuously try and stand on her tippy toes like the dancers had until her feet hurt and her father had to carry her to her bed. Her determination just wouldn't fade but she couldn't find a rhythm or a pace that suited her and slowly but surely she came to despise the ballet and everything that came with it.

Her mother hadn't known what to do with little Eleanor. The girl who had previously adored classical music so much and always hummed one tune or the other while joyously spinning around the room was suddenly repelled by all that as if it were possessed by the devil. Whenever her motives for the sudden hatred were questioned in the following years Eleanor would just wave it off as a phase but her eyes gave away the inner diappointment she felt even while saying so.

Even now, decades later, Mrs. Lovett still told herself that she didn't like the ballet and never really had. Sometimes she almost believed her own lie but she didn't have that much time to think of pirouettes and whatnot, constantly busy with serving one customer and chopping up the other. Her emporium was doing splendidly and no one had yet grown suspicious of the numerous disappearances around Fleet Street. Mr. Todd was mostly careful when it came to choosing his victims, even when he was blind with rage and bloodlust. She was unsure of how long it had been since Pirelli's passing but Toby kept asking about him so it probably just felt like months to her when, in fact, much less time had passed. One couldn't blame her though, with all that work she had Mrs. Lovett was busy from early dawn till late at night and once she shooed out the last drunkards and turned the sign at her door around it took all her remaining strength to drag herself to bed before the cycle started all over again merely hours later. The only day she had mostly to herself was Sunday.

After church, to which she forced both Mr. Todd and Toby to go with her, she went into her bedroom and prepared some hot water by the small oven in the corner for a nice footbath. Once comfortably settled in her chair she would then slowly slide her blistered feet into the hot water and continue reading her romance novel from where she had left off the week before. Her peace seldom lasted long with either Toby or Mr. Todd interrupting her sooner or later. Judging by the footsteps she heard Mrs. Lovett guessed that this week it was the latter.

She was right.

"Mrs. Lovett?" His voice was smooth and velvety which surprised her, considering it was the one day he couldn't kill. "May I come in?" That, too, surprised her. Usually he didn't bother asking for permission and burst in even without knocking. More than once he had caught her with little to no clothing on… which in retrospect she didn't mind, as it had lead to a very interesting change in their relationship.

"Sure, love," she called out, lowering her book. The door opened to reveal her barber, still in his Sunday suit from their visit to St. Dunstan's. In his hands he carried a steaming mug.

"I thought you might like some tea," he stated and crossed the room until he was standing only a few steps away from her. The next sound was the splashing of water as Mrs. Lovett dropped her book.

"Shoot," she cursed and fished the novel out of the iron tub but it was too late, the ink was already running down the pages even as she waved it around. She gave up saving the dripping abomination in her hands and eyed it with pity instead. "I enjoyed that one."  
The barber didn't even attempt to hide his amusement, chuckling softly while pulling the now useless mass of wet paper and smeared ink from her hands and replacing it with the mug. Mrs. Lovett sniffed the liquid suspiciously before cautiously taking a sip. Her eyes widened as she recognized the flavor of her favorite tea mixture.

"Don't act so surprised, pet," Mr. Todd said as he sat down on the bed, carefully examining what used to be his landlady's favorite novel.

"I've a bloody right to be surprised, though. After all you never even come down 'ere on a Sunday, 'cept for when… y'know." The last part was mumbled into her mug but still caused his lips to curl into an almost undetectable smirk while he ignored her comment otherwise, changing the subject.

"So tell me, Mrs. Lovett… what was this little _novel_ about that had you so fascinated?" He held up the soaked book. The bloody man was exceptionally chatty that particular Sunday. Oddly enough Mrs. Lovett blushed, which of course didn't go unnoticed by the barber whose smirk grew more noticeable. "Filthy story, was it? Now I really am curious." He got up and walked over to the chair she currently occupied, then lowered himself onto the left armrest while his right arm came around her so he could support some of his weight on the back of the chair. He began tracing the index finger of his free hand along her neck and collarbone, raising goose flesh but drawing no other reaction from the baker who was staring at the mug in her hands.  
"It can't be that bad, pet," he said, still amused, before he lowered his head so he could whisper into her ear, "I bet it was nothing the two of us haven't done already."

Now that caught her attention and Mrs. Lovett blushed again but still didn't turn her head to look at the barber who was still torturously close to her face. "'T was nothing sexual. The book, I mean. …It was about a ballet dancer." As she said those words she finally turned her head to meet the barber's confused but curious gaze. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Care to explain why that of all things made you blush?" She couldn't think clearly whenever he was that close and the fact that he showed actual interest in her feelings made her heart beat even more erratically than it did from his close proximity alone. Nevertheless she couldn't bring herself to share the story of her childhood dream with him.

"That's a story for another Sunday, love," she said with a sigh, eyes involuntarily darting to his lips.

"If you say so." He whispered back before closing the gap between them, effectively ending their conversation.

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_**Review because the Sweeney Todd anniversary wasn't that long ago?**_


	2. Slow Dancing into Insanity

**Another one-shot... only to warn you I got a bit carried away with the drama, so this isn't really as fluffy as I originally wanted it to be.  
Hope you enjoy anyways **xx

Disclaimer: I'm just a fangirl, I don't own anything.

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**_Slow Dancing into Insanity_  
**

The restless tapping of footsteps from above had woken her hours ago, yet Mrs. Lovett had not dared set foot into the upstairs premises of her barber, instead settling into her mundane tasks of daily routine. With monotone regularity the tapping continued while she prepared everything for the day, increasingly worked up the more time passed. A single look at the calendar had been enough to tell her what was wrong, of course. It was their anniversary. His and Lucy's, that was. On days like this the pain exceeded the hate in the barber's crazed mind and nothing could pull him out of his mood, no number of victims, no insult spat towards her. She still did her best to attempt to lighten the atmosphere most of the time but she couldn't bear the thought of him speaking of his supposed late wife. Not when she wished nothing more than to take the place in his heart the blonde had left vacant. Suddenly the steps stopped and eerie silence filled the house. Mrs. Lovett dared not take a breath, expecting what was coming next but wishing she was wrong. No such luck. A thunderous, heartbreaking cry ripped through the air, followed by a crash and the noise of wood, glass and whatnot shattering. In a heartbeat Mrs. Lovett abandoned her promise to spare herself the heartache these moods of the barber caused her and dropped the dough in her hands to sprint to the inside staircase leading to her tenant's room.

She hesitated at his door for a considerable amount of time, debating with herself whether she should really dare cross that threshold and contemplating possible risks. Her curiosity and concern for him finally won out and she held her breath for a second as she pushed the door open without knocking. The room was a mess but not as bad as she had expected. There were pieces of glass and wood shattered all over the floor, yes, but still most of the furniture was fairly intact. No sight of the barber. With a small sigh Mrs. Lovett immediately began picking up shards of glass with a peculiar reddish-brown pattern around the edges, likely the remains of a vase or something of similar purpose. She then collected all lone planks of wood that had once been a shelf and placed them quietly by the door. Quickly the pile of glass, wood and debris grew while the general state of the room became more presentable. When she was more or less satisfied with her quick clean-up she let her eyes wander across the room, heart skipping a beat when her gaze came to rest on a dark figure in a corner.  
He sat completely stationary, eyes fixated on a framed photograph to which he held on to so tightly she feared he would break the glass. For a moment she became painfully aware of the fact that she was not supposed to see him like that, that no one was supposed to witness his torment. Seeing his lack of reaction, however, she almost doubted he had even noticed her presence and after fidgeting with her old flour-powdered apron and watching his agonized glare aimed at the picture she closed her eyes briefly and turned to leave him, afraid she could handle his pain even less successfully than him. Just as she was about to take a step toward the door a noise stopped her dead in her tracks. It was a choked-up and half-suppressed whimper. She whipped her head around, her worry doubled as she saw something glistening on the barber's cheek which he was quick to wipe away furiously with his sleeve. Mrs. Lovett found her lower lip quiver in reaction to what she still could not quite grasp she had seen. It was that moment she knew she could not for anything in the world leave him in that room all by himself, trapped up there with all the guilt and grief she could not come even close to fully understand the depths of.

Slowly, cautiously, she crossed the room and knelt down beside him. His eyes were glazed over with emotion but for once it was neither anger nor bloodlust she saw in them, but sheer desperation and a sadness that almost made her throw her arms around him and weep for a woman she had hated all her life just to give the emotion he so obviously kept bottled up inside the release it needed. Hesitantly she reached out and brushed away a tear that spilled over while he stared at the photograph in his hands, still not acknowledging her presence, although she knew he was now ignoring her on purpose. She let her hand wander into his mass of black hair, absentmindedly untangling strands of it in a gesture so maternal it might have seemed to one as if she were attempting to soothe a small boy. And really, at that moment she had no romantic thoughts toward him whatsoever, aware that right now, in his deepest despair over the love lost, what he needed was a friend. And not one "dripping rubies", as he so poetically put it once, but a breathing human being who was simply there, someone who would listen without prejudice or judgment. She gathered all her courage, well aware of what he was capable of if she made the mistake of too much intimacy, and leaned her head on his shoulder, bracing herself for what might come. He did not shove her away. There was no hand closing around her neck to squeeze the life out of her, no silver blade pressed against her throat. No reaction at all. She swallowed what was left of her rational fear of him and tentatively put her arms around him, which was a difficult task, considering their awkward position on the floor. Still she managed to settle into the one-sided embrace more or less comfortably. His only reaction was to hold the framed picture more tightly. For a very long time she didn't move because, frankly, she had never thought any of this would be tolerated by him, therefore she had no idea what to do next. In the glass she could see the reflection of his tired gaze. Only now did she register the dark cuts covering his fingers, a terrifying contrast to his pale skin. A shocked breath hitched in her throat as she realized that the "pattern" on the broken pieces of the vase had probably been his blood.

"We should get this cleaned up-" she stated, flinching at how her voice broke the cocoon of silence that had enveloped them. When he neither agreed nor disagreed she decided to drop the matter, figuring that the injuries on his hands were of little importance compared to the gaping wound in his heart. How long she remained silent – and how she did it, considering her usual tendency to hold pointless rants – she didn't know. Suddenly she just blurted out, "How'd you meet 'er?"  
The thoughtlessness behind that question was almost painful but she found herself genuinely curious. Of course she new fully well _when_ Benjamin Barker had encountered the love of his life, the occasion, however, had never been of much interest to the baker until then. When his muscles tensed beneath her she quickly considered running from the room and never cross his path again but abolished that thought just as quickly. "Sorry, love, never mind that silly question. Was just curious, is all."

"A masquerade ball."

The lack of emotion in his voice startled her just as much as the fact that he had answered her. His tone was cold but even and it was clear that he would not say more, eyes still solely on the faded image of his Lucy. It took her a couple of moments until she could process the information and with realization came the imminent urge to either be sick or furious. Judge Turpin that_ fucking bastard_. His intrigue to get Lucy Barker and the way he had exercised his plan had just been an additional kick in the barber's face, an ounce of salt strewn right into a wound. He could have chosen any excuse to lure the blonde to him but of all things he had to use the one thing he must have known was precious to Benjamin, even though he obviously never expected him to ever return from the colony and hear about his evil doings.

"I never knew… if I had I wouldn't 'ave told ya so boldly 'bout how he... 'bout him and Lu-"

"_Don't_." the barber cut in, head turning to look at her so forcefully that she fell back onto her behind in surprise. "Just don't." In contrast to his previous growl these words were whispered as he turned his gaze back on the item in his hands, stroking a finger across the glass in a loving gesture. Truly sorry for troubling him even more than necessary she decided to declare her defeat and leave him be. Her presence did more harm than aid his condition. She moved into a standing position and brushed some dust off her dress, which was useless really, before heading toward the door.

"You're leaving?"

The simple question took her by surprise, especially the almost terrified intonation at the end, as if he couldn't bear to be left alone. Again the image of a helpless boy flashed before her inner eye. "Thought I better go get some work done, should've opened shop hours ago an' I'm making things only worse with that big mouth o' mine."

In his eyes was the faintest hint of a look she had never thought she'd see him wear again, his black eyes wide and almost innocent. It was only there for a second but Mrs. Lovett was certain she had seen it. He heaved a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his raven black hair before moving to get up, obviously stiff from cowering in a corner for such a long time. "Mrs.- " he cleared his throat and didn't meet her eyes creating somewhat of an awkward atmosphere. "Mrs. Lovett, my I ask you for a favour?"

The look he sent her then was utterly disarming and she found herself speaking without thinking. "'Course, Mr. T."

"Will you dance with me?"

She was sure her jaw dropped to the floor at his words, uttered with a velvety voice she had almost forgotten all about. She gaped at him with wide eyes, frozen in a confused stupor. First she considered his words to be a joke, a mocking response to her attempts of comforting him but his eyes were dark and serious, the question still burning in them.

"'M afraid I don't understand…" she finally choked out, a hand coming up to her chest to calm her rapid heartbeat.

"Dance with me, Eleanor." This time the emotion in his gaze changed, a crazed component added to the sincerity as he closed the distance between them with only a few steps. She took a step back automatically, observing the smallest sign of annoyance in his features as she did so. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered as his arm snaked around her waist.

"There ain't even music, playin'," she objected halfheartedly, already far too comfortable this close to him to reject his plea. But he was already taking her hand in his and starting to lead her around the room in small circles. At first the whole thing seemed quite absurd to her but soon she found herself pulled into his mood and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he moved them so smoothly she could almost hear the music from the way he swayed them around. She had never seen this gentle side of him, this openness to intimacy. Their dance lasted either minutes or hours, she lost all sense of time and couldn't care less about it.

Suddenly he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers surprising her so much she stopped dancing, therefore stopping him too but he just continued kissing her and she didn't have the strength not to respond. So long had she waited for a moment like this, had dreamed about it night and day, yet something felt terribly wrong. It felt like he poured every ounce of love he could find in his shattered heart into the kiss and it was all just too much for her to handle, there was too much pain that accompanied the feeling of love. In the next moment she realized with a start what was wrong.

He wasn't kissing her, he was kissing _Lucy_.

It made sense. He was clearly out of his mind with grief and she certainly hadn't made things better by bringing up Turpin and what he had done. She deserved no better than this. She deserved the agony, the disappointment she felt. It was only fair that he used her as a physical addition to the memory of his late wife. He truly believed he was with his Lucy, of that she was sure, and although she was certain she had never felt such pain before, she softly responded to his kisses, tears streaming down her face while he took up the slow dance again. When his lips hovered just above hers she had to bite her tongue to hold back her sobs as he uttered something she had yearned to hear from him ever since she'd met him, but now, not directed towards her, the words meant nothing.

"I love you," he kissed her again, "Lucy, my angel, I love you."

It felt to her as if all air had been knocked out of her but the only response she could muster was the answer he wanted – needed – to hear, although she hated herself for it, hated the fact that even now she couldn't be selfish.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. The worst thing was that her words were nothing but the pathetic truth. Overwhelmed by incredible sadness she buried her face in his shoulder, no longer trying to hear the inaudible music he obviously seemed to be hearing, recalling some tune from his memory of a masquerade ball. In a way the scene oddly resembled their relationship. He was deluded into seeing – in this case hearing - something that was no longer there while she, although aware of the reality, played along to keep him sane at any cost.

Only this time she feared the price she paid had been too high.

This time she had paid with her own sanity.


	3. Distractions Come As Pirouettes

**I'm in hospital and got nothing to do all day. Enjoy some mindless Sweenett fluff and leave a review on the way out. **xx

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_**Distractions Come As Pirouettes **_

Swiftly he let his razor glide across the skin, turning slight stubble into an exceptionally smooth surface while his customer babbled mindlessly away about some whore he'd met in an alley. Why that was something to be proud of was beyond the barber and he was quick to decide whether or not the man occupying his chair was soon to be pie-filling. The lethal cut was quick, probably less painful a death than the bloke deserved, but it was both satisfactory to the barber and a favour to the city for one less piece of scum was now walking the dirty cobblestone streets. As he stepped on the pedal, sending the lifeless body downwards, he watched with a dark smile, waiting for the faint thump of its landing. Said thump was, however, drowned out by a swell of noisy complaints from his landlady who apparently wasn't quite that fond of the idea of having another body to chop up and she let no doubt about her current feelings toward her tenant, calling him every name she could come up with in her rage. That bloody woman was capable of swearing more creatively than most sailors. He was quick to close the trap door and turn his attention to the bloodied razor in his hand. This kill had been more out of boredom than actual bloodlust, therefore the cut had been fairly simple and not caused blood to splutter all over the place. Even his white shirt was perfectly stainless still. No reason for the damned little baker to make such a bloody fuss.

After thoroughly cleaning, polishing and mostly sharpening his precious little friend he placed it back in its wooden box and closed the lid with an almost loving gesture, as if he were tucking a small child in for the night. Outside it was already getting darker and he decided to close shop for the day when a figure appeared at the top of the outside staircase. It was a young man with a broad smile but a certain distanced expression on his face. His shaggy blond hair looked poorly combed, yet it was strangely appealing. It reminded the barber of one of the men he'd met during his time in the colony.

"Good evening," the man said, "I was told you're the best barber in town and wanted to see for myself..."

Too tired to argue Sweeney motioned for him to sit in the chair before he threw the shaving robe around him, hoping there was no blood on it. Somewhere in the middle of shaving he decided to actually finish his work for once, not really in the mood to start an actual fight with the baker. Absentmindedly he let the blade caress his customer's skin all the while wondering what he had done lately to upset his landlady. He couldn't think of anything except for threatening to cut her throat once or twice when she'd been particularly annoying but she had laughed it off both times and things went back to normal- so what was it with her?

"Aye, they weren't kidding, Mr. Todd!" the voice startled the barber and he stepped away from the chair, for a moment tempted to step on the pedal just for the hell of it. "I'll definitely recommend ya!"

Sweeney nodded his thanks and accepted the money he was given with a half-hearted grimace of a smile. This time he was quicker to close shop and threw the door close as soon as the man had stepped out, turning the key in the lock and slumping against it. After polishing his razor once more and sweeping the room he settled into his chair himself and stared blankly ahead, sort of waiting for Mrs. Lovett. It was usually around this time that she came up to bring him supper, sometimes even staying to make sure he ate some of it. Lately he even finished some meals, to her great satisfaction. As the minutes went by he began to grow slightly impatient, tapping his foot nervously. Not only was he beginning to feel hungry but there was also a faint sensation... a certain _awareness_ growing in his groin as he thought about dinner and what usually happened _after_.

Suddenly he jumped up into a standing position and stormed straight toward the inside staircase.

Downstairs she was lying on her sofa which was usually occupied by the useless boy who was likely still out running errands for his "mum". She didn't acknowledge his presence but was doing a terrible job of pretending not to notice him for the next minutes.

"I'm hungry," he simply stated when he got tired of her childish behaviour.

"Bloody well cook something then," she snapped back, covering her eyes with her left arm. That comeback surprised him so much that he almost complied. Almost.

"Didn't you prepare anything?" He was clearly challenging her, his tone combative. He was not quite prepared for her outburst.

"No, I did not goddamn cook, Sweeney Todd, because you sent another damn body down to the basement jus' as I was 'bout to leave, now either ya go an' make something yerself or get the 'ell out of 'ere! Thank you very much." With that she turned on her side so she was facing the back rest of her sofa, obviously feeling that the conversation needed not go on. Her behaviour made him furious and uncomfortable at the same time. He did not like it when she was upset. Not because he cared about her feelings, certainly not, but because she was exceptionally exhausting when in a sour mood. With a deep sigh he walked over to her and nudged her feet so she would give him some space to sit down. The baker didn't react. He almost grinned at her stubbornness for a moment before grabbing her legs and lifting them so that he could take a seat before settling them back on his lap. Her skirts hitched up a bit in the process and he could see she was wearing laced stockings, immediately looking away when he felt blood rush into his lower body regions. He cleared his throat.

"Why don't you tell me what's going on, Eleanor," he playfully ran a finger up her shin, aware of the fact that she was sort of ticklish and knowing it would take a lot of effort for her not to laugh. At first she did a fine job at keeping a straight face but when he started tracing circular patterns around her knee she snorted and buried her face in one of the pillows. "Tell me," he persisted with a joking threat in his voice.

"Mpfhng," she mumbled into her pillow, additionally kicking her legs in an attempt to shake him off.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't quite catch that." When she still didn't answer him he had no more sympathy for her and moved from her shins to her exceptionally sensitive sides. His cruel undertaking was also supported by the fact that she had chosen that precise day not to wear a corset. Soon she was howling with laughter and he found himself immensely enjoying her pleas for mercy. So much, in fact, that he was close to forgetting not to smile himself. He stopped the tickling when he noticed she was ringing for air and instead took up the task of mindlessly tracing the patterns on her dress with his index finger. "Now, let's try again," he murmured, "what did I do to upset you?"

She sighed and looked at him with tears from her laughing fit still in her eyes. "Nothing."

"Nothing," he repeated. "Yet you still seem to be... on edge."

"Got a sore tooth. Bloody 'urts." That was it. The reason for her moodiness. A sore tooth. He all but laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it.

"And why on bloody earth didn't you just come to me?"

The look she sent him was icy. "An' then what, love? You would 'ave _shaved _the pain away?"

At first he believed she was mocking him but it was soon clear that she was being sincere. It made him chuckle. "Eleanor, I am a _barber_," he pointed out unnecessarily. "And a good one at that, if I myself may say so."

"Good for you. I need a fucking dentist though, you bloody smartarse." She was fuming now, the look she gave him a warning to be taken seriously. He sighed.

"Just come upstairs and I'll help you, although I cannot promise you that it won't hurt." When she didn't move he just lifted her into his arms without further ado and carried her to the stairs where she started to kick so violently that he had to set her down again. Before she could yell at him he quickly leaned down and pressed his lips to hers on order to silence her. As he pulled back he looked at her sternly. "Goddamn do as I say."

She didn't object any further and let herself be lead up the steps to his premises, where he gathered a couple of oil lamps together and placed them on a little table which he put next to his barbering chair. The baker took a seat, watching him closely as he searched for the other utensils he needed. Finally he shook off his vest and came to stand beside her, a couple of items in his hands. "Open your mouth," he ordered, leaving no room for an argument. She complied and he stepped closer to take a look, which proved to be a rather difficult task with the dim lighting situation. Still it didn't take him long to find the reason for her discomfort, a blackened back tooth. He realized that he had no choice but to pull it out but had not thought to bring any gin or other alcohol to numb her nerves first. It was going to hurt but he knew his little baker was tough enough to endure it. Slowly he lifted the pair of pincers, careful not to bring them into her field of vision any sooner than necessary. As he expected her eyes went wide when she realized what he was planning to do. Her whole body went rigid and he could plainly see the fear in her expression. Knowing that he wouldn't be able to pull her tooth out with her panicking he put the pincers away, stepping behind the chair and crouching down so his lips were at her ear. "Close your eyes," he whispered and for some reason she did so after staring at him with fear for a few more seconds. "Good. Now imagine this; You're by the sea, walking along the shore, barefoot, the wind tousling your hair.-"

"Are you there?"

That took him by surprise. "where?"

"By the sea?"

"Why would I be there?"

"'cause I'd want ya to..." she sounded oddly young as she uttered those words and somehow her honesty moved something in his heart, so he gave in.

"Fine. I'm there too. Now shut up." He waited a moment to make sure she was not going to say any more. "We're walking along the shore and there's a little festival there and people are... people are laughing and singing along to a tune neither of us know." He didn't care that he was telling a nonsensical story, all he needed was for her to relax. "Suddenly we're in the middle of the crowd and you're pulling me to where everyone is dancing, because you just can't give me a break," he was smiling at that image himself, slowly getting lost in his own narrative, "and I'm too tired to bloody argue because we've been wandering along that beach all day... so I just let you drag me with you. I won't dance, though, so you start dancing on your own and throw your arms in the air and your head back and laugh... and it's a pure sound because it's liberating and at that moment you have not a care in the world. You start pirouetting around kicking sand in all directions like you've gone completely bonkers but you don't care. You just continue your mad little dance and I keep on watching because it somehow is quite enchanting to observe." Quietly he leaned down to retrieve the pair of pincers from the floor, noticing that her breathing was now even again.

"I'm sorry," he said as he gently pried her mouth open, actually meaning it. Hurting her had stopped to appeal to him quite a while ago, although he was not willing to think about why that was exactly. He grabbed the infected tooth with the pincers and tried to get a good angle before giving a quick yank. Mrs. Lovett cried out although he wasn't sure if it was from actual pain or mere surprise. A glance at the black tooth confirmed that he had been successful. The baker glared at him with a look of hurt and betrayal on her face.

"Wot in the name of bloody 'eavens, Mr. T," she said stiffly, spitting the blood in her mouth on the floor, only missing him by an inch.

"Feeling better?" he asked, unmoved by her action. She glared at him a moment longer before touching her tongue to the spot that had previously been filled by her tooth and flinched as it made contact with her sore gum. He could tell by her expression that it no longer hurt her but that she was still considering to be mad at him out of principle.

"It's not feeling great," she said grimly, "bu' it ain't bloody hurtin' that bad either." He sent her his best '_I-bloody-well-told-you-so'_ expression and she rolled her eyes in return. "Now just tell me where ya learned ta do this and I'll shut up."

"Of course you will," he said sarcastically but still explained to her that, as she knew, his father, too, had been in the barbering business, however back then a few more skills had been required, such as basic dentistry. It had been common in the 18th century to go to the barber to get a tooth pulled and a nice shave afterwards. Mr. Barker had simply taught his son what he knew and Sweeney never forgot.

After telling her this he felt oddly exposed and avoided meeting her eyes. Thankfully she didn't ask any more questions, although he could see them burning in her eyes, and instead got up and nodded for him to follow her downstairs with the words, "Wouldn't want ya to starve to death now, would we?"

Instead of actually preparing something to eat she sat down by the kitchen table and he did the same, not feeling all that hungry anymore. For a long time neither said a word but he could constantly feel her eyes on him. Finally she moved in her chair and cleared her throat. "Why wouldn't you dance with me?"

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Beg your pardon?"

"The story you told me earlier. You wouldn't dance with me... and I was just wond'ring why."

"It was just a story, Eleanor, forget about it." He ran a tired hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted by all that talking he'd done in the past hour.

"You just ripped a damned tooth o' mine out, might as well talk ta me like a normal human being now," she pouted her lips and looked away. He sighed.

"I don't dance."

The baker snickered. "'course ya do, in fact you've bloody danced in this very kitchen. "

He decided to use that argument against her. "Fine point, my pet, but need I remind you that it was _you_ I danced with? We can now stop this foolish discussion right here."

"So ya just wouldn't dance with me on an imaginary beach with people watching, correct?"

"Whatever," he groaned and leaned back in his seat, eyes gliding shut. When he opened them again he found her a lot closer to him.

"Want ta dance now?" she asked cheekily.

He shook his head. "No."

For a moment she seemed to be putting great thought into her next words. "Well we might just 'ave ta do somethin' else then..."

Immediately he caught up to her mood when she sent him a suggestive wink and in less than a second he was kissing her passionately, pulling her into his lap. She chuckled against his lips but let him have his rough way, running her fingers through his black strands of hair. He was already beginning to unbutton her dress when she stopped him with wide eyes.

"Oh dear, Mr. T, almost forgot about yer dinner. How inexcusably thoughtless of me... I'll go fix something right away." She jumped up and walked over to the kitchen counter, not even attempting to hide that she was only teasing him. It took his mind a moment to jump back into action but when it did he swiftly moved out of his seat and pushed her against the counter from behind, biting her neck playfully.

"Screw dinner," he growled, "You. Me. Bedroom. _Now_."

At that she laughed and towed him along into the desired direction, for once not starting a bloody argument.


	4. Dancing Flakes and Fairytales

**Fourth installment of this one-shot collection. This time it's not Sweenett dancing but the weather, I'm not entirely sure of this so your opinion would be lovely :)**

**It might be that I am slightly influenced by Disney's Frozen - "_conceal, don't feel_" and all that jazz :D**

* * *

**_Dancing Flakes and Fairytales _**

Fog was hanging low in London's streets, so thick that the figures below were nothing but indistinct shadows instead of recognizable people. Every once in a while the fog would lift somewhat and expose the dirty streets. Sweeney Todd turned away from his window in disgust. The weather resembled his mood all too accurately and he didn't like that at all. Fog made people stay inside, especially during the weekend and it left him with nothing to do. He sat down in the killing-machine that was his chair and let his dark thoughts wander to his landlady who had spent her Saturday out. With a male companion. It didn't seem like that was any of his business but on the long run of course it was. She was to be his accomplice and hide his crimes so he didn't have to bloody do it and now she was out amusing herself with some onion-eyed clotpole instead.

_Where was the woman's respect?!  
_  
With a grunt he got up again and began pacing the room. By now the fog was so bad that he was unable to tell if it was getting even denser or if it was already nearing nightfall. After about five rounds around his chair he flicked his razor open out of habit and stared at his reflection, turning the blade ever so slightly in order to have a crooked view of the door, half-expecting Mrs. Lovett to suddenly appear as she so often did. He waited in vain for her entrance before giving up and almost desperately trying to think of something to take his mind off the fact that she was probably opening her legs for that reeky scut while he was without company. Not that he was particularly fond of her when she was actually present- or so he told himself- but with her out of the house the building was uncomfortably silent. There was no running about downstairs, no singing and no visits that interrupted his painful reveries of yellow locks. Grimly he tried to remember more, see her face before his inner eye, but there was no use. His Lucy would forever be reduced to her hair and it broke his icy heart knowing that he should be feeling far worse about it than he in fact did. Through the impenetrable grey wall outside his window he could make out specks of white dancing through the air, slowly increasing in their number. It took him a moment until he realised he was seeing snow for the first time in almost sixteen years. The realisation brought a mirthless smile to his lips and he watched in grim wonder as the snowflakes grew bigger in size with time, blocking his view of Fleet Street further. It was quite the spectacle to watch, even though he was seeing less and less, and the barber could not tear his eyes away from his window, following the tiny pieces of snow pirouetting through the air with his gaze. It seemed almost choreographed and strangely graceful when a gust of wind carried the snow into a different direction, suddenly changing the dance and sending the flakes into a new spiral.

"Beautiful, ain't it, Mr. T?"

He whipped his head around, startled by the voice, and stared at his landlady with his eyes wider than usual. She sent him an apologetic smile and he took in her sight. Her cheeks, usually the complexion of the snow falling outside, were a healthy shade of pink and her eyes shone like a little girl's. In her curls, which were if possible even messier than usual, were still remnants of the little flakes of snow through which she had obviously been walking for a while, considering her slightly shaking form. A happy smile was on her lips and involuntarily he found himself smiling back, if only so slightly that she did probably not even notice. He realised that he hadn't said a word yet and that the silence, though not unusual for him, was growing increasingly awkward.

"How... was your day?" he asked after clearing his throat and crossing his hands behind his back, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

"Oh, it was lovely, dear," she said, ridding herself of her scarf and mittens and putting them over the back rest of his chair. "Next time you should come along, Patrick has some contacts 'round the world who come to London from time ta time and are always looking for a good barber." She sent him a wink and he felt his stomach churn uncomfortably at the mention of the man who he was now sure was courting her.

Worried she might detect some of his thoughts in his eyes he turned away and looked out the window yet again. The fog had lifted and now only snow was obscuring the view. She walked up to him and came to halt by his side.  
"And what did you do all day, love?"

"Nothing." It was the truth, yet she mustered him with a doubtful look.

"You're being awfully quiet, even for your standards, Mr. Todd. Something happen while I was away? Is Toby alright? I 'aven't seen 'im yet!" She turned to rush downstairs, obviously worried sick all of a sudden. He reached out and easily held her back by her arm.

"Eleanor, the boy's fine. Probably drunk, but fine. I'm merely... I have been thinking," he said, avoiding her eyes.

"You do that awfully often, dear, and seldom does it lead to a good end. What's it this time, eh? Turpin or Lucy?" She sounded slightly annoyed but showed no further signs of leaving so he let go of her arm again.

"Is he worth it?" The barber asked finally, causing her mouth to open in surprise.

"Is he wo-... _Who_?"

"Patrick," he said with shrug, "I mean of course you are to decide whose company you keep, but if your... emotional state were to affect your work, if you were to become less cautious, our little secret would be in danger of being discovered. I am merely concerned about keeping us both from being hung, pet."

He almost expected her to slap him or at least be insulted but what he wasn't prepared for was her laughter. At first it was merely a chuckle as she understood what he was saying, quickly, however, it grew louder until she was howling with laughter, supporting herself on the wooden window frame. Frankly, he was confused.

"Oh, Mr. T, you really never listen to a single word I says, do you?" she got out once she had regained control. "S' not that Patrick isn't a nice bloke, but 'e's _married_, love. To my cousin. I'd never think of him in a romantic way, I couldn't." Again she had to laugh but this time not so hard as before.

"You never once mentioned that," the barber mumbled, overplaying his embarrassment gallantly but not entirely convincing.

"'Course I did. You jus' di'n't listen, is all. Was brooding over God knows what while I told ya I'd meet with him- and Mary, for that matter- 'cause they was showin' me their little baby."

That rang a bell and Sweeney realised that he did indeed remember her babbling away about some relatives the other day. He swallowed once. "Oh."

"Well, now that that's cleared up, may I ask why you's been thinking 'bout this all bloody day?" she raised an inquisitive eyebrow, a cocky smile on her lips. He rolled his eyes and didn't answer, instead flipping open one of his razors and beginning to sharpen it as if she weren't there at all.  
"Aw, I know, you was '_concerned about your revenge'_," she suddenly snapped, the smile vanished. "Let me tell you something, Sweeney. You was _jealous_. There. I said it. And don't you goddamn tell yourself any different. Well, it makes me sad that you actually trust me that little, I thought I made it quite clear how... I feel. About you. You can come see me downstairs once you've made a decision about how we're gonna carry on, 'cause I'm not willing to keep overplaying the fact that I care, it's getting just as hard as it must be for you pretend like you don't feel anything."

With that she gathered her things and rushed toward the inside staircase, leaving him flabbergasted. Her mood swing had been so unexpected it took him all of five minutes until he had fully registered what she'd told him. Obviously his assumptions about her relationship status had been wrong and somewhere in the depths of his being he felt relief, as much as he tried not to. The little baker did things to what was left of his emotions that drove him insane sometimes. All his efforts to _not_ feel were of no use lately and it was all her bloody fault. He tried hard to loathe her for it, to hate her for making the numbness go away, but secretly a small part of him rejoiced at his regained ability to genuinely smile and find pleasure in little things. Like the snow outside.

He watched as the flakes tangoed earthward from the darkening sky in their age old dance and he felt a strange wave of melancholy wash over him. The razor he had been sharpening was still in his hand and once again he looked at his reflection. The man staring back at him was not Benjamin Barker and would never again be, it was Sweeney Todd, but the hard edge in his eyes was not as dominant as when he first returned to London, instead he saw a hint of kindness as he thought of the woman downstairs, a faint shadow of the heartfelt warmth that Benjamin had been known to show everyone.

Sweeney Todd's heartbeat sped up ever so slightly as he realised that his decision had already been made.

**...**

Downstairs Mrs. Lovett was preparing to go outside and shovel away the snow that was building up in front of her shop, still mildly angry at the barber. It had been so painfully obvious that his mind was no longer occupied by his revenge-plotting all the time since he had begun to voluntarily come downstairs to have dinner with her and Toby regularly, engaging in conversation with her and on occasion even with the boy who grew less suspicious every day, fooled by Sweeney's charm as much as half of London was by now. Increasingly he had then appeared in her shop for the dinner rush and without a comment helped serve the customers, disappearing just as suddenly when it was time to sweep the premises and wash the dishes, which were still tasks reserved for Toby and herself.

"Bloody man," she mumbled to herself as she stepped into the cold winter night, the dim street light reflected by the snow almost blinding her eyes, and began shovelling snow. Every once in a while she stole a glance at the window upstairs in the hope to see him, feeling a mix of anger and disappointment when she didn't. It looked like he had her fooled as well, she thought, while she pondered over how wrongly she had interpreted his actions.

The only thing still giving her the slightest bit of joy was the ever falling snow. Though she wasn't that fond of cold weather, she still appreciated the sheer beauty of snow. All the millions of white dots, gracefully falling from the clouds, reminded her of her childhood when her mother would tell her stories of fairies and other pure creatures symbolizing all kinds of virtue. She herself was nowhere near as innocent as a fairy, yet in the midst of the dancing flakes she could easily pretend to be. Mrs. Lovett turned her gaze skywards and threw her shovel aside, spreading her arms and slowly starting to turn around and around, growing dizzy from the movement and the chaos of white specks surrounding her.

Just as she was about to fall down she was caught by strong arms.

"Hello," he said somewhat awkwardly as their eyes met.

"'ow long've you been standin' there?" she asked, feeling a blush creeping up her neck and spreading on her cheeks.

"A while," he admitted with a half-smile as he took a step away from her. "It looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Well, I wasn't," she lied and demonstratively turned around to pick up her shovel again, immediately starting to work. She didn't achieve much as he was quick to reach around her and take the item from her hands, carelessly dropping it once she let go.

"I got work to do, Mr. T," she protested half-heartedly, feeling a rush of excitement when she saw the look on his face.

"Is that so?" he smirked shamelessly at her, "As far as I remember you told me to pay you a visit so the two of us can settle some things, am I wrong?" He was slowly backing her up against the door to her shop. Mrs. Lovett was making an effort to reply but her voice got stuck in her throat and the words she wanted to say never made it past her lips. By now his body was almost pressed flush against hers, the tip of his nose only an inch away from her own face.  
"Now I believe you have made your position clear and would now like to know where I stand in this little fantasy of yours." It wasn't a question and he looked smug but his voice was husk with emotion. She swallowed hard, not used to this close proximity to him and her eyes briefly darted to his slightly parted lips. "Would you like to know to what conclusion I have come, pet?" It was said in a whisper, his breath fanning against her pale lips as her eyes fell shut in anticipation. She nodded her head, already drunk from his scent and the warmth radiating off him.

His explanation was not a verbal one, instead he closed what little was left of the gap between them and brushed his lips against hers in the tentative ghost of a kiss. However, he very second their lips touched the sensations exploded and all the caution and hesitation vaporized, making way for burning passion. He pulled back for a millisecond, overwhelmed by the utter force of the released feelings, before attacking her lips with more determination, pushing her back against the door to be even closer to her which was almost an impossible thing to achieve, seeing as he was already close to crushing her. A small part of her worried that the door might give way and they would fall inside but that part quickly became quite insignificant. His hands came to rest on her hips while hers wandered into his hair, fingers running through the raven black strands that were already damp from standing in the falling snow. Numbed by her erratic heartbeat and the burning in her veins she dared to run her tongue along his lower lip, begging for access which he all too enthusiastically granted her. How long they stood in their intimate embrace and how many people saw them she didn't know and didn't care but somewhere in the middle of their kiss the tenderness returned and he started placing kisses along her jaw line to give them both an opportunity to catch their breath for which she was grateful.

"Does this mean... wot I think it means?" she bravely dared to ask as the kisses stopped, opening her eyes to find his black orbs looking directly at her.

"What _do_ you think it means?" he countered, his voice low and even. She noticed he was still holding her close to him by her hips.

"I'm not trying to be Lucy, I'm not angelic like she was."

"I know. Thankfully it is not an angel I seek. Not anymore. You're a she-devil, Eleanor. A bloody wonder in a despicable world. And I am certainly no saint either, I am but a demon, wouldn't you agree?"

"That would make quite the shop sign, love," she said with a smile while playing with the collar of his coat. "Sweeney Todd- _the Demon Barber of Fleet Street_". 'As a good ring to it, no?"

He chuckled in agreement before his expression grew serious again. "I may not... fulfil your dreams."

"I'll take what you're willing to offer," she whispered honestly and hoped her words sounded somewhat reassuring. He seemed to consider that for a moment, then the faint light returned to his eyes. He pushed a fallen curl from her face, brushing a thumb across her cheek in the process.

"Are you planning on staying out here much longer?" he asked, suppressing a shiver as she noticed that he was dressed much less weather-appropriate than she.

"Need warming up?" she asked innocently, knowing that he would notice the cheeky undertone anyway. He raised an eyebrow, questioning her suggestiveness. This time it was her turn to answer non-verbally and she leaned up, stopping just short of his mouth to ran her tongue along his lip. The bold action had the intended effect and the barber growled and caught her bottom lip between his own but just as she was about to lose herself in the kiss he pulled away and smirked at her.

"Don't think you can taunt me, woman," he warned with a dangerous glow in his eyes. She was not the least bit intimidated.

"Oh but I can," she said gleefully, running a hand down his chest and stopping at his belt, playing with the buckle until she heard his breath quicken. Then she pressed one last lingering kiss to his lips before turning around swiftly and getting the shovel, which was already covered by a thin layer of white. It took him a second to catch on but in a moment he was behind her grabbing her hips and spinning her around so she was facing him again.

"Bloody tease," he grumbled and stopped her counter argument effectively with a slow kiss to which she understandably didn't object, wrapping her arms around his neck, the shovel once again forgotten.

Around the pair the snow was still swirling in the breeze, drawing an icy pattern in the air. The beauty of this scene was unnoticed by the barber and the baker who were captured by the magic of something else entirely. But the snowflakes still danced tirelessly with the wind, giving the whole picture a perfection that came close to the fantasy world Mrs. Lovett had been so often told about in her childhood.

The only difference was that for the first time reality seemed a good deal better to her than the suddenly meaningless tales.


	5. Ballet- Part II

**Okay the following piece is fluff all the way because this fandom is slowly but surely dying out and I can't stand the thought of this so I need to create some lovey-dovey Sweenett scenes to calm my crying heart.  
**

**This is a sequel to the first chapter of this installment. **

**Enjoy, leave a review- or don't- and just be happy, alright? x**

* * *

**_Ballet  
_**_| Part II |_

The house was completely silent, Sweeney noticed grimly, already dreading the empty day laying ahead. Outside the wind was howling, a stark contrast to the complete stillness inside, and Mrs. Lovett had decided to cancel their weekly church visit for once, thinking she was doing him and the boy a favour. While this was likely true in Toby's case, he himself had felt somewhat disappointed. At least the hour spent at St. Dunstan's was one less hour spent brooding in the confined space that was his tonsorial parlour. The Judge had not shown his face even near Fleet Street in a very long time and the more time passed the less blind rage he felt when thinking of Turpin's snobbish face. This didn't mean that he was abandoning his revenge, no his nemesis still needed to pay for what he had done, but his mission had ceased to have the utmost priority. With a frown he decided to polish his beloved friends, something that had become a daily routine ever since Mrs. Lovett had returned them to him, and then pay the strangely mismatched pair downstairs a visit. He took his time letting the silver blades glide through the soft piece of cloth, smiling with dark content when the light from the sun, hardly penetrating the grey clouds and thick smog hovering above the city, was reflected by the razor in his hands. Once satisfied with the result of his polishing he placed the razors back in their little wooden chest and let them rest on a shelf he reserved especially for them before crossing the room to the inside staircase leading to his landlady's premises.

Downstairs it wasn't as quiet as he had expected. The boy apparently was busy re-organizing the dishes in the countless shelves and cupboards of Mrs. Lovett's kitchen and was not exactly careful, constantly dropping one wooden bowl after another before placing them back at their respective places. Furthermore the whistle of boiling kettle ripped through the air just as the barber crossed the threshold to the kitchen area. Toby jumped up from where he was kneeling on the floor in the midst of what looked like fifty plates, varying in size and cleanliness. He poured the hot water in a large mug that was already standing on the countertop and turned around just to notice Sweeney watching him. A scream got stuck in the lad's throat and his eyes widened in shock.

"I di'n't hear ya enterin', Mr. Todd, sir, ya gave me an awful fright!" he complained in a whine and set the mug back on the countertop so he wouldn't drop it. The barber smiled darkly, hardly apologetic.

"Where's Mrs. Lovett, son?" he asked, looking around.

"She's in 'er room, was jus' gonna bring 'er some tea," the boy replied bravely in the most casual voice he could manage.

"Let me take it to her, so you can continue... whatever it is you're doing," Sweeney said, sending the boy a glare when he was about to object and fetching the mug from the countertop. He left the kitchen with a slight shake of his head, amused by the fear he still triggered in Toby.

He walked through the house, in no hurry to arrive at his destination. When he was at her door he knocked softly, not really wanting to disturb her but still hoping she wouldn't minds his company. There was no reaction but he noticed that the door stood slightly ajar so he pushed it open a bit wider, just far enough to be able to look inside without being seen himself.

Whatever he had expected to see, it certainly wasn't this.

His landlady had one leg up on her relatively high nightstand and was pressing her upper body closely to her leg, her forehead touching her shin. She held that position for about half a minute before swiftly swinging her leg back on the floor and repeating the whole procedure with the other one. All this was only possible because she was not wearing her usual dress, but merely a pair of knee-length knickers, striped stockings and what he recognised to be one of his undershirts. He watched in fascination, marvelling at her flexibility for not entirely innocent reasons. When she finished stretching she began softly humming to herself until she found a rhythm. Once she did it seemed like she did not need the music anymore and just began dancing. Her pirouettes were insecure at first and she was quite hesitant, still it did not affect the beauty of the scene. He almost found himself smiling when she closed her eyes and followed a choreography she seemed to effortlessly recall. For how long he stood there outside her door and just watched her he didn't know but after a while he saw a smile spread across her face that did not fit the graceful movements but held a certain cheekiness.

"Ya do realise I've noticed you standin' there, Mr T."

He felt like a child with its hand caught in the cookie jar and averted his gaze, suddenly intrigued by the cold liquid in the mug he was still cradling in his hands. After an awkward moment of silenced he regained his senses and entered the room with a neutral expression. He placed the mug on a little table in the corner and buried his hands in his pant pockets before meeting her bemused gaze. She stood on her tiptoes, catching a glimpse of the mug.

"Brought me some cold tea, I assume? 'ow lovely." Sarcasm was painfully dominant in her voice and he just rolled his eyes as a response.

"What were you doing?" he asked, trying to steer the focus away from himself but getting slightly distracted by the fact that she was still wearing _only his shirt and her underwear_. Aware of his lust-filled stare Mrs. Lovett sent him a coquettish smile and went to sit on her bed. Only now did he see the shoes she was wearing. He recognised them to be the footwear of professional ballerinas , the only kind of person his mother had always admired.

"Well, I was dancing, Mr. Todd, but since you had to ask wot I was doing I wasn't doing that well, eh?" He almost blushed, resisting the urge to tell her that he had found profound pleasure in watching her elegant movements. Instead he cleared his throat.

"Does this by any chance have something to do with that lovely piece of literature you dropped into your footbath the other week?" Immediately he regretted his teasing tone when her features hardened and she looked away. His pride and reputation prevented him from apologising.

"Anything you need?" she asked in slight annoyance, pulling at the ribbons of her shoes until they could be pulled off. He considered he obviously rhetorical question for a moment before letting a genuine smile break out on his face and crawling onto the bed until he was comfortably resting against the familiar headboard in a half-seating position. She turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You told me last time your little ballet tale was a story for another Sunday. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, pet, but that was two Sundays ago."

"And just 'cause that's the case you think I'll tell you? It's very personal to me." She sounded stubborn but when he reached out she let herself be pulled back until she was comfortably leaning against his upper body. Having her in his arms like this was by now quite familiar and not unpleasant and out of habit he pressed a kiss against her temple, feeling her heartbeat get somewhat uneven at the affectionate action.

"All week long you never once shut up and then when I'm curious about something concerning you, you try and shut me out. Somehow I find it quite hard to converse with you." It was meant as a joke but she stiffened in his arms with anger.

"It's none o' your bloody business and if you find it so damn hard to be around me then just leave for Christ's sake. I di'n't ask you to come down 'ere."

He found her unsettled demeanour oddly amusing and failed miserably at concealing that fact, although attempting to hide his smile in her fiery curls. She rammed her petite elbow into his rib-cage as a response, hurting him less than she probably intended. He mentally waved it off, knowing he would need to work a bit until she'd be ready to share the story he really wanted to hear now. Again he placed a kiss on her temple and then moved down, leaving a trail of kisses down her jaw-line, her throat, her exposed shoulder, until she let out a soft sigh and relaxed again.

"And yet I still came down, pet, so listen and listen carefully because I am only going to say this once," he murmured into her ear, "I _like_ coming down here on Sundays, I mostly _enjoy_ the time we share when neither of us has to worry about our business, and on top of that I _care_ about your feelings. Stop being so damn difficult about it."

He couldn't see her face but he knew her eyes were wide with surprise and for a second he regretted telling her the truth because it was bound to come with consequences but for the moment he felt an unfamiliar lightness in his heart that he couldn't help but enjoy.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, turning in his arms so she could look at him although he was trying to keep her in her place. "Did you mean it, Sweeney?" She rarely used his first name when addressing him so he knew she wanted none of the _I-told-you-I'll-only-say-this-once_ shit he was initially going to respond with. He nodded his head and before he had it registered she was kissing him and he found himself kissing her back softly, their lips moving in sync. When she pulled away she leaned her forehead against his and took a few shaky breaths before kissing him once more in a way that made his heart yearn for more instead of his groin. The barber found himself still thrown off track when she started talking.

She told him about a childhood dream of hers, her wish to be a ballet dancer, and as the words flowed from her lips he understood why she had been so reluctant to tell him. It was a story she had never before shared with anyone, her deepest secret, and that meant something, taking into consideration the fact that all of her life was a big lie. A lie she had created just for him, he realized, suddenly zoning out her words and staring at the back of her head in wonder until she finished her story.

"It's silly, that dream, I know it is. Bu' ever since I read that book I can't quite get the idea to start dancing again out o' me 'ead." She chuckled and it sounded embarrassed.

"It's not silly, Eleanor," he assured her, still in a daze. "Everyone has these childhood dreams." Sweeney hesitated for a long moment until he added, "Benjamin dreamt of being a pirate."  
He was prepared for laughter or ridicule but she just squeezed his hand in a loving gesture.

"Y'di'n't need ta tell me that," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

"I wanted to."

Neither said a word for a while then and for the first time he found himself regretting the fact that it was only on Sundays that they shared this kind of intimacy. It was nice to have someone who cared, he realised, just as it was nice to care. And as much as he tried not to, he did care about the little baker in his arms. More than he had originally promised himself to ever care about a person, a _woman_, again, after what had happened to him.

And somewhere deep in his black heart he found utter joy in that fact.


End file.
